


We've Read The Back of the Book, We Know What's Going to Happen

by ever_neutral



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-14
Updated: 2012-10-14
Packaged: 2017-11-16 06:47:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/536653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ever_neutral/pseuds/ever_neutral
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maybe it was as simple as an ill-timed confession from one runaway to another: It's you. I am running to you.</p><p>[Or: Five Ways It Didn't End]</p>
            </blockquote>





	We've Read The Back of the Book, We Know What's Going to Happen

**Author's Note:**

> spoilers for "The Angels Take Manhattan"

 

 

 **01.** There is a better ending to this story.

Not better for her, not better for him (the other him), but still, for whatever value of "better": more bearable, more tolerable, (just barely) easier to live with; not really an ending at all, because -- just in case you missed it the first dozen times -- he hates endings. He's always been selfish.

This is exactly why, in this version -- the edited version, the _rewritten_ version, the version crossed out and scribbled over with the clumsy desperation of a madman -- in this version of events, he simply chooses not to let go.

That is, to say: he takes a forceful grip on her frail arm, the one shaking with the effort of shaking him off (as though he'd _ever_ let it be that easy), and tears the choice away from her grasp.

She is shouting hoarsely as he pulls her bodily back inside the Tardis, every fibre of her desire directed back the way they came, away from him. As this is happening, River is standing still as a stone, not daring to blink, not being allowed a choice either (he did that to her). Because -- to reiterate -- he's always been selfish.

The Tardis door slams shut as Amy is screaming, "I have to go back, Doctor, I have to go to him, let me _go_ \-- " but already the engine is whirring. They are leaving this place of death behind; leaving Rory, leaving River behind. He thinks he should care.

Amy is hysterical, crying and beating madly on the Tardis doors for what seems an excruciatingly long time -- but in reality is probably only a few minutes -- before finally crumpling into a defeated heap, shoulders heaving with the force of her grief. (He did that to her.)

She'll never forgive him. That much is true.

He can probably live with it. There are things worse than guilt.

 

 

 

 

 **02.** There is a different choice she could have made.

The funniest thing is how it was never a choice, not really. Standing in that lonely graveyard, with the wind beating against her face: there simply had been no other option -- or if there had been, it had failed to occur to her at all.

But there might have been a moment.

A strangled, passing moment, insignificant as any other moment: the words that spilled like last resorts from his lips might have somehow taken on new meaning.

Maybe something as choked and desperate as "I will never be able to see you again" had never been a warning. Maybe it had never been about saving her, or Rory, or Weeping Angels, or the fate of the planet -- or anything else that might happen to exist in that singular moment in time.

Maybe it really had always been about the two of them, the Doctor and Amy Pond ( _and the days that never came_ ), about all the things that lay in the space between -- _we were best friends, we had adventures, my life in your hands, was it worth it? shut up of course it was_ \-- Maybe it was as simple as an ill-timed confession from one runaway to another: It's you. I am running to you. The others, they aren't you. Come back. Stay. Choose me. Don't go.

A minuscule, meaningless moment that emerged, was missed, and faded away.

(But would it have made a difference?)

(No.)

 

 

 

 

 **03.** There was a time she thought she wouldn't have to make a choice.

Because surely the universe couldn't be so cruel (it could -- and more). Surely it wasn't so much to ask: to have the entirety of the universe at her fingertips, the freedom of opportunity waiting at every turn; to know the love of two men; and to never have to be split in half.

(All she ever wanted was the whole world.)

In the end (the first time it ends): he simply makes the decision for her. Drops them off by their shiny new home ( _a doll's house_ , she is awful enough to think), bequeaths a useless parting wave, whisks away with the supposed air of a man with not a care in the world.

Amy knows better. There are a lot of things she knows about him that he doesn't know himself. There are a lot of things neither one of them says out loud. This is why she closes her mouth. She could let it out, but then she might never stop.

He comes back every now and then, of course. Whenever it "strikes his fancy". (Whenever he gets tired of running.) There's always a place set for him. Amy supposes there always will be: a piece of herself that doesn't belong to her, doesn't belong because he stole it and, despite all claims of the opposite, never really gave it back. (She knows that he is selfish.)

They don't travel anymore. They sit indoors, the three of them, saying cordial nonsensical things like "Played any football lately?" and "How are the Ood?" Her boys will bicker and verbally spar as Amy observes and nurses her tea. She's not so talkative in these occasions, afraid of the things neither of them want to hear.

 _Come back_ , she'll think, as the Doctor tells an elaborate and pointless joke over pudding. _Come back, and stay._

Afterwards, Amy will reach for Rory, feel him solid and present and _there_ with her; feel as though she is righting again, as though the place where their hands connect is the only part of the world holding firm. (She never thought she'd crave that stillness.)

"Have I ever told you that I'm glad you exist," she might murmur thoughtlessly into his hair.

Rory will chuckle, rub circles into her back, and know she is thanking him for being the one who's never left.

(She almost forgets the empty space.)

 

 

 

 

 **04.** There was a time she forgot what she wanted.

The terrible thing about the Doctor's world is that it is mad, dangerous, impossible, completely incompatible with anything resembling normal or "right" at all.

The terrible thing is that she feels like she's never belonged anywhere more.

"I just can't settle."

She would have said this long ago, forced the words out before her fiancee's devastated face. And she would feel dreadful, awful, a wretch of a person -- and yet also relief. The Girl Who Waited would have become The Girl Who Left, far earlier; perhaps even the girl who left the wrong guy (the right guy).

But since when did Amy Pond ever do things the "right" way.

"Is it me," Rory would ask, eyes downcast. "Am I -- am I not enough?"

"Rory," she'd say, not being able to help the useless love spilling around his name. "You are everything any girl could ever want."

(She just can't accept it.)

(It's her fault. She's always been wrong.)

"Is it him?" he goes on, mouth set in a determined line. "Do you love him more?"

Amy stares at the strip of sky through Rory's window, thinks: _It would be simpler that way._ The Doctor isn't like Rory. He isn't reliable. He isn't good, or nice, or safe, or right. And running away with him has nothing to do with love at all.

She can't expect much from the Raggedy Man, the boy who left her; she knows that. The one good thing to say is that he doesn't expect any of the above from her either.

"I just need some -- time," she lies, a cliche that seems fitting for the occasion.

Rory nods, accepts it, as he has always accepted her, and lets her go.

She leaves him, then, leaves her best (real) childhood friend, leaves his broken heart lying on his kitchen floor; feels the truth in her bones that he is better off for it. Because he's Rory Williams: the boy who always waited for her; the most beautiful man she's ever known. He deserves so much better.

When Amy reaches home, he's there -- for once right on time, and waiting for her. (Imagine that.)

There is guilt in his eyes, as always. He is sorry for her, sorry for Rory -- but not so sorry that he can't say, "So, where to, Pond?", his usual grin stretching with some effort.

Amy shakes her head, steps into the Tardis. "Just - go." Doesn't look back. "And keep going."

(The one good thing about the Doctor is that he does.)

 

 

 

 

 **05.** There is an impossible ending to this story.

But then, the universe is vast and wild and unimaginable, with more wonders and horrors than any person can fathom; anything can happen, anything at all.

This is the only explanation there could be for him running back, running running with everything remaining in him, running back to Central Park, back to the grassy place where they were together and happy just that day -- and finding her there. Waiting. As ever. As always.

(The girl who waited for him.)

(How could he resist.)

"Doctor, the Angel -- "

"Wasn't strong enough. Yes. Obviously. So."

She's biting her lip to keep from smiling. "You totally didn't know that until now, did ya."

"Totally did."

And now neither of them can hold back their smiles. And now they're smiling at one another, as though it's an ordinary day, as though the worst possible thing that could happen didn't just almost happen. That is, until he remembers -- this is not where she wants to be.

As though she's read his mind, Amy sucks in a breath, carefully says, "You know, Doctor, maybe it was a good thing." And for one second, the universe spins off its axis and punches him in the eyes with its impossibility.

(Then again, the universe is wild and unimaginable; he still can't predict how the story will go.)

Still, because he is nothing if not ridden with useless guilt, and a lack of self-belief he shows no one: "Amy. You can't."

"We'll keep trying to reach him, Doctor," she responds without missing a beat. "We will keep doing that. But, right now…" She looks him in the eye, conviction radiating from her stare. (She always was the stronger one). "I'm here to stay."

It is at this point that his resistance will break.

He will close the distance between them, reach a nervous hand toward her cheek, to feel her warm and alive and in his reach; to know for sure that this is real, not imaginary, not just in his head at all. "Amy," he'll intone, and her name will be the first and last thing he ever knows, "is this what you really want?"

Her answer will be simple; inconceivable; the one thing in 1200 or so years he's ever wanted: "No one's leaving anyone. Not anymore. Or ever again. Okay?"

And because this is an impossible version of this story, the endless story of a lonely madman, he will simply smile, accept it, and say, "Okay."

 

*


End file.
